Little Things

You used to laugh when I tried to teach you to spit, I will tell him. I used to lean over the sink and spit. PUH, I'd say, and spit into the sink, and you'd laugh and laugh.

When you were first born you loved lights, I will say. We'd take turns holding holding you in the kitchen so you could gaze at the light above the stove. We'd turn the fan on, too. Sometimes the light and the fan were all that would calm you.

Your dad made up songs for you. You cried when you rode in the car, so he sang to you, I will say. The songs didn't help you much, but they distracted me some. You cried a lot.

I will tell him:

You loved to clap, and you loved when people clapped for you. When you smiled you showed your dimples, dimples you definitely didn't get from me. And when you smiled, I smiled too. I made the signs for 'Mama loves you,' and you clapped. One day you stopped clapping when I made the sign. I kept making it anyway.

When we took walks, we would tip the stroller up-like wheelies-and smile at you. Your teeth showed, and your eyes crinkled, and we knew you were happy.

You loved outside. Sometimes I held you on the porch, just held you, and that was enough. Enough to make you smile.

You talked before you had words. You held conversations with us. "Dougledougle," you'd say. "Duckaday." "Gleeeee!" Your conversations had the intonations and pauses of a real language, one we couldn't ever understand.

When you got angry you picked up toys and threw them on the floor. You reached out for whatever toy I offered to appease you, to calm you. You took it and threw it on the floor or swatted it out of my hand. When you didn't want to eat your food, you threw it on the floor. You picked it up in your little fist, raised your fist, and threw it to the floor with a force surprising for a baby. I watched as time I spent making food, warming it, cutting it into small pieces splattered into disconnected heaps I would have to sweep up. Again.

You gave zerbits and kisses-kiss kiss we called them. You opened your mouth and put it on a belly or an arm or a cheek of whoever you loved at that moment. They were the most slobbery, disgusting kisses, but we were thrilled any time we were on the receiving end.

When you were a few days shy of fourteen months, you learned to stick out your tongue. You imitated anyone who stuck their tongue out at you. When you saw me touch my nose with my tongue, you tried so hard to do the same. We adored each new trick you showed us.

I will tell him these things because he won't remember, and I won't allow myself to forget.